A couple of publishing houses expressed an interest in Allegro. Steve shared the good news with John. Juan replied that he had finished the twenty-three stories and was about to send the book off. The magazine sales would only tie up the rights. Juan could have just been quiet; he could have just said nothing and let Steve have his moment, but no moments for Steve.
Steve said “We’ll have a copying and mailing session on Saturday. We’ll make this a little tradition. I’ll mail out your book, you’ll mail my next book and so on.”
Juan said, “That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard. I always felt we would be doing stuff like that. I’m not at all surprised about Allegro. I always knew you would be the writer.. Remember that day the Bowen gave us the little note cards?”
One of the first exercises. Bowen had handed out three by five inch pale blue index cards. He had written an emotion on each. Steve got ENVY. Then you had fifteen minutes to write a scene where the emotion was invoked by the character’s actions. It was called Show Don’t Tell. Steve’s was the best; he knew then he was meant to be a writer.
Steve visited his blue haired, frail grandmother that evening, cheering the old lady up immensely. They watched TV and recollected that Steve used to drop by after school for a plate of warm cookies. This was a completely bogus recollection. Steve’s grandma hated to cook. They were both caught up in TV grandmothers. She fell asleep during a rerun of The Golden Girls and Steve took what he had come for—his late grandfather’s heart medicine. Steve let himself out without any fuss.
At home Steve ground the medicine. He poured fifteen tiny white nitroglycerin tables into a makeshift mortar and (what-the-hell) added five pink digitalis pills. He crushed the tiny tablets into a fine powder—easy to do since heart medicines are finely crystallized to get into the bloodstream quickly. He added the mixture to a small amount of ground Folgers coffee. He shook, added a little salt, which would help cut the bitterness (he hoped).
Everything went smoothly on Saturday. Juan addressed all the envelopes, while Steve ran off a couple of copies of Allegro. Steve brewed coffee in the two employee coffee pots. Decaf for himself, poisoned for John. Juan always drank his coffee with spoons and spoons of sugar. Steve brought the cups in. They talked writing. Steve refilled John’s cup.
Juan said, “This coffee is strong.”
“I was a truck driver in college.”
Steve kept talking about all the things that wannabe writers talk about. The potential for a series, TV, movies, foreign rights, gaming rights, book tours, hot babes that would not mind John’s fleshy middle. Talk and pour and talk and pour,
“Let me Irish that up for you.” Steve poured a little Baileys in the John’s cup.
“Aren’t you having any?” asked Juan.
“I’m the designated mailer. As soon as we are ready I will take these down to the post office. Ain’t it cool?”
“My heart is beating like a kettle drum. I am so excited.” Sweat hung in big drops on Juan’s light brown forehead. He smelled funny—a sort of metallic smell. Steve assumed that it wasn’t exactly the sweet smell of success.
“It’s that eminent fame plus the caffeine, of course,” said Steve, “You know you should really take care better care of yourself.”
Juan looked guilty, “I’ve got a confession, dude. I am really diabetic. Type II. I don’t tell anyone at work, because I really like scarfing down desserts at the monthly office birthday parties.”
Big fucking surprise: El Gordo is a diabetic.
“No shit,” said Steve, “I had wondered. I mean last month I must have seen you devour three slices of red velvet cake. Well maybe if you keep yourself healthy for your adoring fans.”
“I haven’t taken care of myself since my wife left me. I drink too much, eat too many fast sugars. When I started this writing thing, I thought that maybe life wouldn’t be day after day at TDS and nights when I hoped I would just die in my sleep.”
Steve said, “Writing brought the best out in me. No question. Say man you are looking a little like a slice of red velvet cake right now. Why don’t you go on home? I can handle everything here.”
“I am a little queasy. Is it hot in here?” Juan seemed disoriented
“It is really hot,” lied Steve. “Come on let’s get you home. Enough excitement today for my flan.”
Juan made his ponderous way to the escalator.
“No. Come on take the stairs. You need to start taking care of yourself, baby steps you know.”
“You are the only friend I’ve got.”
“I know. Joan used to feel the same way.”
Steve began leading the bug man to the stairwell. With the slightest shiver of distaste, he put his hand on the sweat soaked back of Juan’s pink shirt. Big, wet brown. As Juan began to step on to the straits, Steve sharply increased the pressure of his arm on John’s back. Suddenly Juan ripped. He tried to break his fall, but only broke his arm. The body slumped-and-slid down to the turn in the stairs. Steve slowly stepped down to his fallen companion. Juan’s heart had not withstood the strain. Poor Juan, he should have started that aerobics program he was always talking about. All those enchiladas and tres leche cake hadn’t helped either. Lesson to us all. Steve gathered up Juan’s envelopes and the MSS. He washed his coffee cup and put it on the rack—careful to leave the coffeepot turned on. Almost nothing was left in the bottom of the pot. He threw away the now almost empty Folgers’s can that had the poison in it.
He was Juan’s loudest mourner. Everyone had known how close they were. Someone asked about Juan’s book. Steve said that he thought Juan had sent it out. Juan had always been secretive about his writing. No, Steve had never seen the book. The family up from San Antonio had never heard of it. The boss saw how upset Steve was, and sent him home for a week to get over his loss. Steve used this time to print out new copies of John’s work and stuff them into the envelopes that Juan had so thoughtfully provided. He changed the byline and the title and cleaned up Juan’s grammar. Juan had chosen a good set of markets, but then Juan had an excellent understanding of his own work. Steve felt that Borges at the Mike could be a bestseller. It was funny and gritty and had a little magical realism as a seasoning. Nice salsa for a white boy. American sabor.
Bluebonnets azured the highways, and Steve’s agent Mary Denning finalized a deal with Bantam for Allegro. Borges at the Mike was receiving a few enquires as well. Steve spent some of his generous advance on a three-strand pearl necklace for Sally. He showed it around the office and everyone said that he should quit and work full time. Nobody talked about Juan anymore. The consensus was that he’d never had a book in the first place. The strain probably killed him. Even Steve let himself be convinced.